As expected, re'Trenat's face appeared on the screen. Like most of his silly rebels, he had shaved the fur on one side of his head in the pattern of the glyph for victory. Re'Trenat's fur was snow-white, so the victory glyph stood out, etched as it was in his obsidian skin. He also, me'Grmat noticed, had taken to wearing some kind of jewelry in his left ear.
"Good morning, Your Eminence. I hope this message finds you well. I am told that a Federation ambassador is arriving within a day or so. It only took four years-though I suspect that attacking Governor Tirol's satellite is what really got their attention. But for whatever reason, the Federation has finally decided to heed our cries for help. Now is your chance, Your Eminence. The next time the governor tells you to speak before the people to denounce us, refuse! Or better yet, tell the people that they should support us! You wield great power among our people--your support would send a message to the Klingons that we are truly sick of their--"
Me'Grmat shut the reader off with a derisive snort.
Send a message to the Klingons, of course, he thought. That message being, "Time to kill this old fool and appoint a new emperor."
Emperor me'Grmat XIX had lived a long, prosperous, happy life. He did not want it to end at the wrong end of a disrupter. Besides, what better way to rebel against the Klingons than to die quietly in one's bed? It would make any self-respecting Klingon sick to his stomachs.
That is a philosophical rebellion, of course, me'Grmat thought with a sigh, so someone who leads attacks on mines and satellites probably wouldn't understand it.
He was about to reach over and signal for the servant, when she loped back in. "Your Eminence, Governor Tiral wishes to speak with you."
"Very well. Please take this raktajino away--it is defective. Have it destroyed in case some other, less understanding person drinks it." "Are you sure, Your Eminence? The galley told me it was an especially fine batch this morning. I think if you drink some more, you'll find it to be quite a strong brew."
Me'Grmat started to say something, then sighed. "I'm too old for these word games. Take it away, and tomorrow, I expect all my food to be free of optical chips, is that understood?"
"Of course, Your Eminence. I'm sorry the raktajino wasn't to your liking."
Sighing, me'Grmat handed her the mug. If she insists on being oblique, let her, he thought. Klingons were big on surveillance in any case, so she probably needed to be discreet.
As soon as she left with the raktajino mug, me'Grmat rose from the cushion and sauntered toward his small computer console on all fours.
"Screen on."
Tiral's round face appeared on the screen. Behind him, me'Grmat could see the assorted consoles that made up Tiral's command center on that satellite of his. Some Klingons wandered about, but most of the people me'Grmat saw were al'Hmatti, being ordered around by those selfsame Klingons. Sweat plastered the fur of the al'Hmatti to their skin, a combination of the hard work and the obscenely high temperatures that the Klingons insisted upon. Me'Grmat could not understand how any living being could tolerate such heat for any length of time.
"Greetings, me'Grmat," "Tiral said. None of the Klingons ever called him Your Eminence. As a rule, Klingons, in the course of general conversation at least, did not lie--part of that code of honor they were so proud of-and no Klingon considered the emperor to be an eminent personage.
"Greetings, Governor. To what do I owe this honor?"
"I need you to give a speech to the people this afternoon, me'Grmat.
Today is the anniversary of our retaking this planet, and I think the people need to be reminded of that."
"Of course, Governor. I'll be happy to."
That was a lie, of course. But then, me'Grmat hadn't really been happy to do much of anything in years.
Tiral signed off, and several servants came in. They bathed me'Grmat, dried his fur, combed it, placed the necklaces of his office over his head, and fitted him with the imperial tunic. The primary necklace was a string of silver with a Spican flame gem at its center, of the two other necklaces, one was of rubies, the other of kevas. When he had first ascended to the position of emperor, me'Grmat loved the idea of the necklaces, glowing as they did with the light of his office. That was before he'd realized that he had to remain on his hind legs at all times when he wore them.
The first Emperor me'Grmat had been female, as were her first five successors. It wasn't until after the Klingons came that any emperors were male. Unfortunately, male al'Hmatti, unlike females, had wider necks than heads, so unless they stood straight up, the necklaces would fall off.
These days, me'Grmat viewed them as little more than shining dead weight in any case.
He looked at himself in the mirror. When did I get old? he wondered.
He could not recall when, exactly, the bones in his face started to become so pronounced, nor when his cheeks and forehead got so sunken in, nor when everyone around him suddenly seemed larger, as if he'd shrunk.
Hissing softly, me'Grmat frightened the servants as they finished grooming him. You got old the some way everyone gets old, fool. Time passed.
After he was pronounced fit for public consumption, another servant led him to the communications center, where he would tell the al'Hmatti what Tiral wanted them to hear.
When it was over, me'Grmat found he could not remember precisely what it was he had said. It was probably the same speech he'd given a thousand times before, about how much more prosperous tad had been over the last two hundred years, about what a savage, barbaric people the al'Hmatti were before the Klingons brought them civilization, that sort of thing. The people in the comm center all went on about how inspirational it was, but me'Grmat wondered at their sincerity. He was the emperor, after all--they would hardly tell him his speech
was awful. It meant nothing either way. If there were any al'Hmatti who agreed with what he said, they already agreed, and the speech did not matter. As for those al'Hmatti who did not agree--a number that me'Grmat was fairly sure included the majority of the people--one speech would hardly make a difference.
But he was the emperor. This was what he did. And he would continue to do it until he could draw breath no more.
After he returned to his chambers, Tiral contacted him, praising him, using words like inspirational and forceful. So the speech must have been a good one.
The servants removed the necklaces and the tunic and left. Then me'Grmat lay down on his cushion, and waited for death.
"Are you familiar with the world designated tad, Ambassador?"
Worf had to resist the urge to turn around and see which ambassador had entered the room. This new title will obviously take some getting used to, he thought.
He sat in the large, undecorated office belonging to T'Latrek of Vulcan, one of the Federation Council's ministers for external affairs, and the person to whom Worf reported. She had gone over a variety of administrative trivia with Worf, including several items that had been, for whatever reason, left incomplete by his predecessor. T'Latrek also made the Federation Council's policies on a variety of subjects clear to Worf.
Now, she had turned to the final order of business: his first assignment.
In answer to her question, Worf said, "I believe it is a world the empire conquered several centuries ago."
"Two hundred and fourteen years ago, to be precise," T'Latrek said.
"The world is quite inhospitable to Klingons, but is rich in top aline deposits. The natives, the al'Hmatti, were given jeghpu'wl' status, as is traditional in the Klingon Empire." T'Latrek pronounced the Klingon word, which roughly translated to conquered people--not quite slaves, but not full citizens of the empire, either--with a mild-but-acceptable accent. "They had lived as such for two hundred and ten years."
Worf frowned. He had not known of any change in tad's status--but then, he hadn't followed the developments of every conquered world in the empire. "What happened four years ago?"
"The Klingons invaded Cardassia, and that near depletion of
Klingon Defense Force vessels within the empire proper allowed a rebel faction among the al'Hmatti to succeed in a coup d'etat. They immediately applied to the Federation for assistance, as well as possible membership. Since the empire had withdrawn from the Khitomer Accords at that point, the Federation was willing to investigate the matter." T'Latrek handed Worf a padd, then continued. "A preliminary investigation was begun by your predecessor. However, that investigation was cut short when the empire retook the world and also re-allied with the Federation following Cardassia becoming part of the Dominion. Hostilities with the Dominion precluded any further pursuit of the investigation, in any event."
Worf glanced at the padd's display. As the planet's name indicated--the word literally meant frozen--tad was an icy world. Worf could understand the value of the planet two centuries earlier, when the empire had been in expansionist mode. Topaline was used in atmospheric
domes, and for a long time was considered quite rare. Within the last fifty years, though, dozens of worlds had been discovered that were rich in the mineral. Worf wondered why the empire bothered reconquering tad. He set the padd atop a pile of other material that T'Latrek had provided. I will, I suspect, learn the answers to my questions soon enough, he thought.
"I take it," he said aloud, "that the end of the war has changed that."
"Yes. Technically, the request the al'Hmatti made is legitimate, and the Federation has an obligation to pursue it That must be balanced against the needs of the Federation's alliance with the empire, particularly in this time of rebuilding."
"The Federation cannot accept a planet that is under Klingon rule as a member," Worf said bluntly.
"On the face of it, yes, that is so," T'Latrek said. "But the retaking of tad has not solved the empire's problem, either. The rebels continue to flourish. Last week, they attacked Governor Tiral's satellite base. The Federation Council has received repeated calls for help from the al'Hmatti, and Tiral has requested assistance from the Klingon High Council. The Federation cannot simply ignore the al'Hmatti's request. Therefore, a solution needs to be found that will satisfy the Federation, the al'Hmatti, and the Klingons. That is your assignment."
Worf nodded. "Very well."
"One more thing, Ambassador." T'Latrek folded her hands together and gazed right at Worf. "I am, of course, aware that the head of your House is also the leader of the Klingon High Council. It is quite possible that the relationship will prove useful to you in performing your duties. But it is just as possible that the relationship will cause a conflict of interest. Your record in this regard has led some members of the Federation Council to question your appointment. You have demonstrated a pattern of allowing your loyalty to family to overcome your duty. Those, in fact, represent the only black marks on an otherwise spotless Starfleet record. Should such a conflict happen now, we expect you to resolve it logically and in a way that will not endanger your continued service as a Federation ambassador."
"Is that a threat, Minister?" Worf asked.
T'Latrek raised an eyebrow. "An observation, Ambassador."
Worf remembered how his departing the Enterprise without leave in order to claim his vengeance against Duras for K'Ehleyr's death had warranted a reprimand from Captain Picard--his first since graduating from the Academy. He had resigned from Starfleet in order to aid Gowron in his efforts against Duras's sisters and repay his debt to Gowron for restoring his House's honor, a move that had probably delayed his promotion to lieutenant commander. And Captain Sisko had reprimanded him after he chose to rescue his wife Jadzia Dax rather than complete a critical retrieval mission.
Slowly, Worf said, "While it is true that Chancellor Martok took me into his House, my first duty is to the Federation."
"I do not doubt that, Ambassador, and there is no need for you to reassure me. Your actions will, I'm sure, do so quite satisfactorily."
Worf nodded to T'Latrek. "Of course." Vulcans, as a rule, did not lie. If T'Latrek had been one of those who objected to Worf's appointment, she would have said so.
"You will be escorted to the Klingon border by the
Enterprise tomorrow morning at 0800." T'Latrek looked down at her desk and spoke in a quieter tone: "In fact, Captain Picard personally requested the assignment."
Is that a note of disapproval? Worf wondered. There was something in TLatrek's voice that he had not heard before. Until now, T'Latrek had spoken with typical Vulcan stoicism, betraying no emotions whatsoever.
But then, he supposed that a Vulcan would find so sentimental a gesture distasteful.
Worf, however, was grateful. Contact with his former comrades on the Enterprise had been sporadic during the war. It would be good to see them all.
Then he thought back over what T'Latrek had actually said. "To the border?" he asked.
"Yes. The empire insists that you be taken through Klingon space by a Defense Force vessel, the Gorkon, which will rendezvous with the Enterprise at the border. Apparently its commander, Captain Klag, has taken a personal interest in tad and insisted that he be your escort.
Indeed, Klag did not want Federation involvement at all, but the High Council was willing, as long as you were the Federation representative."
suspect Martok's hand in that, Worf thought. Klag, Worf remembered, was the officer who had wiped out an entire Jem'Hadar regiment on Marcan V. T'Latrek continued, "You will be joined on the Enterprise by your personal aide. The rest of your staff is already in place at the embassy on Qo'nos. Their records are available for your review, of course." She indicated the pile of pad ds that sat on the desk in front of Worf.
"Very well," Worf said with a nod as he rose from T'Latrek's guest chair, gathering those selfsame pad ds
"If there is nothing else ... "
"No." T'Latrek also stood, raising her right hand and parting the middle two fingers in the V-shape of the Vulcan salute. "Peace and long life, Ambassador. Qapla'."
"Qapla'." Worf raised his own right hand and matched the gesture. It was uncomfortable, but the minister had done him the courtesy of a Klingon salutation. Worf could hardly do other than return the favor.
"Live long and prosper, Minister." At least T'Latrek isn't human, Worf thought as he left the office. Then she would likely have insisted on shaking hands. No matter how long he lived among humans, Worf had never been able to think of that human ritual as anything other than silly-looking.
Worf headed for the nearest transporter room in order to return to his parents' home for what would probably be the last time for many months.
In all his time as security chief on the Galaxy-class ship that bore the name Enterprise, Worf had escorted many people to the V. I P quarters. They were the largest on the ship, almost embarrassing in then: luxury. Worf-who had found his own, smaller rooms to be unnecessarily lavish--had never thought he would be in a position to stay in such quarters.
Now, on the Sovereign-class successor to that ship, Worf found himself in accommodations even larger than those he had so disdained. Commander Riker himself had met Worf in the transporter room and escorted him here, and Worf came very close to requesting something smaller--but he knew that would not happen. He was, after all, a Federation ambassador.
So he simply set down the duffel bags he had insisted on carrying himself (courtesy was one thing, but a warrior never let others carry his personal items), turned to Riker, and said, "Thank you, Commander."
"The pleasure is mine, Mr. Ambassador," Riker said formally.
"Please, Commander--I believe it would not be a breach of protocol for you to call me by name."
Grinning with his still-beardless face--Worf wished the first officer would grow it back; without it, his face looked just wrong somehow--Riker said, "Haven't gotten used to the title yet, huh?" "No," Worf said simply. "But even if I had, such formality between us would be--unnecessary."
"All right, but that means you're going to have to start calling me "Will.""
Worf blinked. He hadn't thought of that Riker had been his sup
erior officer for so long ..."I will work on that--Will." "Good," Riker said.
Walking toward the food replicator, Worf asked the question he knew he'd need to know the answer to sooner or later: "How is Deanna?"
"Fine," Riker said with an ease that relieved Worf. "Not here, unfortunately--she's on Betazed, helping with the reconstruction efforts there." To the computer, Worf said, "Prune juice, chilled." He turned to Riker. "Anything for you, si-Will?"
"No, thank you."
The prune juice materialized in the dispenser, and Worf took a sip of it. "And you and Deanna are ... ?" Worf let the question trail off.
Riker broke into another of his trademark grins. "Doing just fine, thanks."
"I am glad to hear it." Worf's brief relationship with
Deanna had been a source of tension, which was why, when Riker and Deanna had renewed their relationship on the Bak'u planet, Worf had made sure to give it his blessing.
"Y'know, Worf," Riker said, approaching the Klingon, "the first time I saw you, I said to myself, "That man is going to make a great diplomat.""
"Really?"
"No, not really. Worf, the first time I saw you, you tried to blow a hole in the viewscreen because Q's face appeared on it."
Worf took another sip of his prune juice. "I was young and rash."
"And what would you call yourself now?"
Worf considered. "Old and rash."
Riker laughed. "It is good to see you again, Worf. Well, I'll let you get settled in." He headed toward the doors. As they parted, Riker turned and said, "Oh, there's a reception for you in Ten-Forward tonight at 1800 hours."
Wincing, Worf said, "Comma--Will, I do not think--"
Cutting him off, Riker said, "Worf, in the seven-and-a half years you served on the Enterprise, how many people of your current rank did we take on as passengers?"
"I do not recall the exact number, but--"
"And how many of them had some kind of reception or event planned in then- honor?" Worf sighed. "All of them."
"Precisely. Don't worry. It'll be a modest affair--just a few officers and some finger food and drinks." "Modest," Worf said, sounding dubious.
Star Trek - TNG - 61 - Diplomatic Implausibility Page 3